Anamchairde
by LJ Summers
Summary: After the tenth anniversary of the downfall of Voldemort, Harry realizes he's missing something important - as indeed are both his dearest friends, Hermione and Ron. The Celts had had a word for what they were to each other: anamchairde. Would that be enough?


_**A/N:** So, once again, I forgot about The Day. And I was on Tumblr this morning and saw all these images (thank you, Mugglenet!) and was inspired to write something for the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. _

_Last year, I was also likewise compelled and wrote something rather sad. (See **2 May 1999** on my profile if you're curious.) This year, I wanted to infuse more hope into the story. Something, perhaps, to smile about. _

_It's short, but I do hope you can smile by the end of it._

* * *

 **Anamchairde**

At first, there had been the Victory over Voldemort celebrations held every year. For five years, Wizarding Britain had taken a holiday on the second day of May to celebrate the death of the Darkest Lord in a Century.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron sighed every year, remembering the untold losses of that day more than the fact that a prophecy was fulfilled. That Harry had indeed triumphed. For the three of them, it had been a day of profound horrors followed by an otherworldly numbness.

After a great loss, there is often a lack of sensation.

After the fifth anniversary celebration, though, interest in one waned. Hermione had been relieved because seeing Harry put through the emotional wringer every bloody year was beyond enough. Ron was relieved because he never felt like he belonged with the Golden Trio that the newspapers touted. Harry was relieved because he could finally, he hoped, try to find _himself_ , not the mythic _Other_ that Wizarding Britain had created in his name.

And suddenly, it had been a decade.

The three of them lived together but not always in the same breathing space. Combining resources and Order of Merlin benefits, they'd purchased an old country manor that had room for each of them to be together, but not living in one another's pockets. Being alone, utterly alone, was intolerable (though they had each tried that). Being with others had grated on sensitive minds and hearts (though they had each tried that as well). They lived best with only the others and the awkward silences and glances had become their normal, their treasured comfort zone.

In the end, they bought a small estate with a Quidditch pitch in Yorkshire. Harry and Ron taught Hermione how to fly like a Seeker, and she had been astonished to discover how fun it was. Really. What was the danger of flying compared to the dangers she'd met on the solid ground? Ron learnt how to cook, Muggle-fashion. Harry found there was a great escape in literature of all genres.

They grew together. They supported each other. They lived quietly, writing out their own version of the _History of the Blood Wars_ and the _The_ _Life_ , _Death, Life, and Final Death of Tom Riddle_. Ron taught self-defense classes on a tutorial basis, earning income. Hermione was a contributing editor to _Hogwarts, A History_ and other regular publications. Harry . . . had family money from the Potters and Sirius. He worked on home improvements. Flew. Helped Ron and Hermione on occasion, and spent a lot of time with young Teddy Lupin, who had a suite of rooms in Harry's part of the estate.

* * *

A Patronus bounced into the common room of their manor. It was a hare and the faces of all three brightened to see the essence of the guardian, of their friend Luna.

 _There's to be a ball,_ the Patronus declared in Luna's airy manner. _And we'd like you to come. I promise that the Wrackspurts will be warded off, this time!_

Harry snorted, Hermione rolled her eyes, and Ron chuckled.

"Better tell her we'll go, mate," the redhead suggested. "The _Prophet_ will have something to say about it if we don't."

Harry sighed and rubbed at his forehead. There was only the faintest impression of a lightning strike there. "Only if you both promise to dance with me."

Hermione dropped the book she was reading, her face darkening with a sudden blush. "Beg your pardon?"

Ron leaned back in feigned nonchalance. "Cor, Harry, been trying to get you to dance with me for years." He directed his wand at the wireless set and music floated into their common room. Hermione stared as Ron made a big show of crossing the area rug to Harry and extending one hand.

The men waltzed together—though the music was clearly not a waltz—laughing and shaking their heads. "You're barmy," Ron said with a grin.

"You're both quite mad," Hermione said, though she was also smiling.

Harry, though, didn't say anything. He just relaxed a bit. They hadn't _played_ together in a while, he and his friends. And he'd missed it.

* * *

"Will I do, do you think?" Hermione inquired, joining Harry and Ron in their common room. She was used to business attire, preferred casual jeans and jumpers, but tonight had donned an elegant gown. A ballgown, as Luna had requested. Black with blood-red accents, it skimmed down her slender figure in a fall of silk to caress her bare toes. Heels—charmed for comfort—added a certain height to her stature; her coiled coronet of hair added more.

Luna was the owner and editor of _The Quibbler_ , these days, and she had married Charlie Weasley. Together, they supported the just treatment of all magical creatures and enjoyed discovering new things to share in the media. Luna's tastes in ballgowns was unique, but she had developed an eye, to be sure. And she had made Hermione go shopping for something "stylish, not bookish" for the Tenth Anniversary Ball.

Ron bowed formally to Hermione. "Yes, my lady Granger. You look bang up to the nines." His feigned posh accents were at amusing odds with his words and Hermione curtsied with a smirk. "D'you think I'll do?"

"Quite fine robes, there, Mister Weasley. Trying to catch a girl tonight?"

They both paused in an awkward way. "Er, no," he said after a flush had burned and faded. "You know, it's been a while, come to that."

"They get frightened off by your dancing," Harry commented as he entered the room, adjusting his cuffs as he did so. His hair was long and tied back with black silk, that evening, and he noted that Ron and Hermione were also dressed in black. A celebration this might be, but they . . . they were still in mourning, he thought. "So, I propose the first dance with Hermione, tonight."

He was surprised by her blush, though maybe he shouldn't have been. They'd not danced together in, well, ten years maybe. He and Ron had messed about as they had when Luna had let them know about the ball, but not Hermione; she'd held herself aloof.

 _Not tonight._ He met Ron's bright blue eyes and they nodded. Hermione was totally going to dance with them.

"Ready?" she said briskly.

"Yes, ma'am," they replied.

* * *

Speeches happened. Of course. Harry spoke for the three of them, the years having given him the buffer he needed to communicate for many, not just a few.

"And so we gather here tonight, in Hogwarts where it ended, to remember as well as to rejoice. Our world is brighter, lighter than it was. Our children grow up without the shadow of the dark. Our schools can teach about cultures whilst interacting _with_ those cultures. It's a grand time to be magical in Wizarding Britain!"

"Our children, Mister Potter?" Neville Longbottom asked from his place on the dais. "Have news for us, do you?" He winked at the Trio. He blinked when Harry's cheeks went pink, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to the gathering. "And now, dancing!"

A waltz—of course—began the evening and to the amusement and curiosity of the entire community of celebrating folk, Hermione led both Ron and Harry to the empty dance floor. "Well?" she said, a hand out to each. "How do we do this?"

She laughed when the men each put an arm around her and each other, their feet tangling together whilst they remained somehow upright. Tittering laughter ringed the Great Hall, as well as whispered speculations.

"One-two-three-and!" Hermione whispered loudly. They laughed and danced and, somewhere under the still-enchanted ceiling, the Golden Trio became teenagers again in their hearts. Teens without the fear of the war, but with the wisdom gained under its pall.

The night was golden.

* * *

"Conference!" Harry's Patronus bounded through the manor the day after the Anniversary Ball. "Conference in the kitchen!"

"Thought you ought to know!" shouted Ron from his suite of rooms, his voice echoing due to the enhancement of the Sonorous charm. "Sorry, mates. Doing my bit by imitating Quirrelmort!"

"Ronald Weasley! Really!" Hermione's enhanced voice bounced about as well before she jogged to the kitchen, where Harry was already cooking breakfast. The sizzling of bacon rashers, the rich aroma of her favorite dark roast coffee, and the stylish presentation of tomatoes on porcelain plates met her eye. "What is it, Harry?"

Green eyes glinted with mischief as well as apprehension. "Get some coffee, 'Mione. First things first."

The air over their small round breakfast table was thick with speculation. What did Harry want? Why had he called a conference? Had something happened the night before? Did he want to break up housekeeping? Was there a problem that had arisen at the ball that they hadn't heard about?

Hermione and Ron exchanged looks but got no answers until after they'd all had a cup of something, anyway, and enjoyed the food Harry had prepared.

Ron pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and leaned back with studied casualness in the rail-backed chair. "All right, Harry Potter. What is on your mind this morning?"

Harry took a quick breath before rubbing at his eyes. No more glasses; he'd had his eyes fixed years ago. "Last night. Something hit me last night and I realized something I wanted and didn't have and I want to talk to you about it."

Ron snorted. "Clear as mud, mate. Come again?"

Harry pressed his lips together and studied each of his companions. Best friends. The Celts had had a word for what they were to each other: _anamchara_. A friend of the soul. Not a soulmate in any sort of romantic relationship, but rather they were friends of his heart. The plural was _anamchairde._ His _anamchairde_ were who had his best interests in mind, and whose best interests he sought to maintain. Hermione was his always-faithful. She never doubted, always supported, guided, advised, mourned in sympathy, rejoiced in bounty. Ron was his right arm. His kindred spirit in so many things.

For them, Harry knew he was their touchstone. It was a huge burden when they'd been younger but he'd grown into being their rock as they had grown into mighty people on their own.

So that morning, breakfast dishes still on the table, the twenty-seven-year-old wizard nodded slowly.

"I want a family. Children. I want to raise a family in the Britain we have today."

He held his breath for their responses, but they only stared at him, faces unwontedly pale.

"Harry?" Hermione felt her heart in her throat. "Harry? Are you . . . are we . . . do you want us to . . .?" She felt as if her chest were cracking wide open; a feeling she'd not suffered since finding out her parents were forever lost to her after her ill-thought but well-performed memory charm of them. She couldn't take her eyes from her dearest friend. "I—I'm at a loss," she said, knowing even as the words fell from her lips that they were patently unnecessary.

A glance at Ron showed her he was equally so. At a most profound loss. "Harry. Mate. What?" As he often did, Ron rallied and attempted to inject humor into the situation. "I mean, you know, you never said you wanted to get me up the duff. Dunno as we can square that, but I've heard . . ."

He trailed off when Hermione made a small gasping sound. "Oh."

Carefully, Harry rose from his chair and came around so that he was sitting on the floor between the other two. He took their hands—something he couldn't quite manage over the tabletop. "Mione?"

"You mean us, don't you. You want . . . to do that . . . with us." She blew out a breath and blinked a few times. Harry smiled, warmth seeping through where a cold chill had prevailed since he'd decided to discuss the topic that morning. Hermione pursed her lips and caught Ron's attention. "He wants to start a family with us, Ron."

"Oi, you'll likely have a peck of gingers there, Harry." Ron's smile was slanted but genuine. "What with me and your mum, yeah?"

"Wait," Hermione said, holding up her free hand. The other clenched Harry's almost too tightly. "You mean . . . for me . . . to carry children . . . for us?"

Harry kissed the back of her hand once, holding it close to his cheek afterward. "There is no other woman in the world I'd trust, Hermione."

"But we don't—"

"Hermione," Ron interrupted, taking her other hand between both of his. "It's always been just us. You know that. Even when we were in school and we had . . ."

"Really messy relationships." Harry grimaced. "Won won."

"Wet kisses."

"Quidditch stars, anyone?"

They stood as if by some silent signal and embraced one another all three, in a circle that was as old as their friendship, as warm and safe as they'd been for one another for so many years. Harry kissed a stubbled jaw, feeling how Ron responded to that as if he'd been petting a collie. He nuzzled Hermione's throat and felt her sigh into his hair.

They kissed his cheeks, then one another's.

And then, they nodded.

"All right Harry. You're right, you know. I can't think of anyone else I'd trust other than you. To be . . . vulnerable like that? Only for you. The two of you."

Ron's eyes darkened in memory but he sighed loudly before smacking a loud kiss on Harry's head. "Still don't think you can get me pregnant, mate. But you can try."

Their laughter was nearly as good as a Patronus.

* * *

The mechanics of it were awkward at first. Potions, short-term lust potions, had been quietly brewed in the manor's laboratory. As much as Hermione loved her men, this was not a place she'd let her mind wander since they'd been in school. And after . . .? The habit of years, of friendship and lust-free trust had taken time to overcome.

They told no one their plans. Not for months.

They grew comfortable sexually with one another in pairings and in slow increments. Then comfortable with all three of them.

And, by the Weasley New Year's Eve party, they had an announcement to make that rather astonished the family.

* * *

At first, there had been the Victory over Voldemort celebrations held every year. For five years, Wizarding Britain had taken a holiday on the second day of May to celebrate the death of the Darkest Lord in a Century.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron sighed every year, remembering the untold losses of that day more than the fact that a prophecy was fulfilled. That Harry had indeed triumphed. For the three of them, it had been a day of profound horrors followed by an otherworldly numbness.

After a great loss, there is often a lack of sensation.

After ten years, though, there grew a determination for growth and new beginnings.

The twentieth Anniversary Ball after the Fall of Voldemort took place on 2 May 2018. It was a grand time, truly. Older veterans sharing stories. Teens who had been born shortly after the renewal of Britain. And children. Young children. Laughing and playing and chasing chocolate frogs.

Among those children were those who bore the name Potter, by common consent, in order to continue the line of the House of Potter. (The Weasleys, Ron had said, had plenty of continuity thanks so much. The Grangers were continued, Hermione said, by giving her last name as the middle name to each child she bore. They all agreed it was right and proper.)

James Granger Potter was the eldest of the four. He had vivid red hair and green eyes and was excited to start Hogwarts himself before too long. Frederick Granger Potter had brown hair and blue eyes and had, so his father said, been born on a broom. Emma Granger Potter had black hair and green eyes and looked so much like her father that she dressed just like him once, including a lightning bolt scar on her forehead. She never did _that_ again. (The following Hallowe'en, though, she dressed up like her Aunt Ginevra on the Harpies. This met with more approval.) The youngest Potter was in her father's arms. Her name was Hope. Her hair was a light golden brown and she had already begun to exhibit "accidental magic" that her mother thought was in no way accidental. Hope didn't speak, but she knew what she wanted.

Well-wishers, fans, and the curious came and went during the evening of the Anniversary Ball, but none dared to question them. They were, after all, still the Golden Trio.

Plus four.


End file.
